CycleDog: (n) 1. An all-weather bicyclist, often regarded as one very sick puppy with a bad attitude. 2. A ankle-biting poodle with a Mohawk. (l)Canis
familiaris cyclus

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

I had this dream, see...

Dream Machine?

I've been off the bike for the last couple of weeks. First, there was some persistent knee pain and a saddle sore that just refused to heal. I tried various balms and potions on the sore, but eventually I came around to considering a drill press, the Pace machine at work, or even the nuclear option. The Pace soldering/desoldering station was really attractive, since it has a grinding attachment and thermal tweezers in addition to the usual soldering accoutrements. I gave some thought to the potential for traumatizing my co-workers by heating the tweezers, dropping my trousers, and....well...never mind.

Then shiftlessness set in. I was overwhelmed with simple, cussed laziness. Driving the car was just too easy, though I have to admit that the saddle sore made me sit kinda funny, with one cheek slightly elevated. This put a strain on my neck, shoulders, and back, so they hurt too. Fun, fun.

One morning, I stood on the bathroom scale for the first time in a long time. After it stopped spinning, a process that seemed to take minutes, I was appalled to see that I'd gained a LOT of weight! More dummy me, continuing eating like a horse without getting any exercise.

So is it any wonder I dreamed of bicycling?

I dreamed that I was riding in the Tour de France. And true to form, I was way off the back somewhere behind the vehicle caravan. I can't even win in my dreams! What does that say? A following vehicle was a mile or two behind me, following stragglers even slower than I was. I had to reach an airport to catch a flight to Oklahoma City, where that day's stage would end. But I was so slow that I missed the flight. It left without me. The only other aircraft was an old Cessna 4-seater that a mechanic was working on as I arrived. It obviously wasn't going anywhere.

The airport manager walked up and told me that I could still reach OKC. "We'll drive you there!" he said proudly. His car was an old Simca that was in worse shape than the Cessna. How we were to drive to OKC from France was never mentioned.

It was 4AM when I awoke. The dream was so preposterous that I sat in the dark chuckling about it.

At 5AM, I was up getting ready for work. I rolled the Bianchi out of the garage and pushed off down the hill. It was like meeting an old friend I hadn't seen in some time. We spun along happily with the help of a cold but friendly tailwind, and we didn't speak of the Tour.